Silk and Scandal (3 page)

Darlington nodded. “Ah, yes. The famous will. You must be leg-shackled by midnight of your thirty-fifth birthday. That day approaches, if memory serves.”

“You know very well it does. I suppose you gleaned that bit of information from your mother? How is the Lady Beatrice faring since the death of your father?”

“Quite well and in her own bit of heaven after all those years of boredom in the country. She is unattached now and living in London. Perhaps you’ll run across her one evening. She’s particularly fond of the opera.”

“I detest the opera,” Nicholas demurred. He also detested Lady Beatrice whom it was rumored spread her thighs quite often for his own father long about the time of his own conception. Though both men, so much alike, never mentioned it, they knew it was likely they were half-brothers.

As boys they’d often played together, had been thrown together in society. Beatrice never lost her disappointment that her beloved son was a mere earl when he could have been a duke. She passed this poison on to her son as he grew to manhood and, Nicholas suspected, instigated the competitions that eventually destroyed their friendship.

Darlington laughed and continued to watch Eliza. Another aged gentleman took her arm and led her to the dance floor. “Surely you know that nothing is sacred in London and no secret stays secret for long. Your cousin has already made the deal well known.”

Nicholas said nothing while silently cursing his perpetually stupid second cousin, Park. Oh, yes, Park Mansfield was to inherit, assuming Nicholas wasn’t man enough to land a wife before the deadline.

He’d only known his cousin several times removed as a spoiled boy who had a penchant for picking his nose. Disgusting in childhood, Park, most likely, had not changed at all. Nicholas wasn’t worried about him in the slightest. He would have his bride, an unblemished miss who had the blessing of society. “My cousin can hang.”

Darlington laughed with delight. “Go after her, man, but this time I will win. Such a beauty,” he sighed with dramatic flair. “Our nursery will be filled with spirited children.”

“We shall see.” Nicholas hardly believed he’d been gulled into this confrontation. It was, admittedly, quite childish of him.

“Let’s see if the years in the Orient have taught you anything about survival,” his current nemesis demurred. “I’ll have her, Nicholas, I swear. Knowing you’ve set your sights on her will make the victory even more... umm... pleasant.”

Nicholas merely nodded coolly and looked away. “I accept the wager.”

* * * * * *

Eliza listened carefully as she always did. Gossip, as usual, was most informative. Between her efforts and those of her quite helpful maid, she felt she had a fairly accurate link into the affairs of the Ton.

“I swear, no one has seen Juliana since the wedding in June,” Marianne Hawthorne said. “She was always so happy and gay, never a complaint, but then she married. Suddenly she isn’t happy and gay anymore. I wonder why?” Her blue eyes were wide. “Why?”

“Maybe she’s caught up in the notion of motherhood,” one man said. “’Tis her duty, you know. She probably is so happy being a wife that she’s concentrated all her efforts to the cause.”

Wanting to scoff at the idea that a woman was less than complete if unwed, Eliza, instead, held her Tongue and murmured quietly, “What if she is not?”

Eliza knew she was searching, but she wanted to be sure. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard this kind of talk and always it brought her back to Charlotte and the agonies she had endured. No other woman should have to suffer so.

Under duress, Eliza had been cast back into Society this season. Mama and Papa refused to listen to her arguments and pitiful pleadings saying only that it was time to return to life. Eliza had eventually succumbed to her parents’ wishes, keeping to her own secret agenda. She hoped to exact retribution for other women who found themselves in a situation such as Charlotte’s.

Since the Season’s beginning, she’d made many new friends, gossips and young women all. It troubled her to know that since Edward’s comeuppance, she still thirsted for revenge, surely a terrible flaw in her character.

It had all been ridiculously easy. Everything. The more she learned about abuses, the more need there was for the Raven Rogue. She’d not given the name to herself, and to her way of thinking it was a testament to the bland thinking of the Ton that the name had stuck. It might have been amusing to be called the Black Widow or the Avenging Angel. Of course, no one dared admit the culprit might be female, so the Black Widow was definitely not the sobriquet of choice. The Raven Rogue, no doubt a silly name, had been granted her by an equally silly man who fancied himself clever indeed.

Thinking back to that night with Edward, she wondered if she’d lay eyes upon the bastard again. He’d survived. Oh yes, as a cripple, but she’d yet to see him since that fateful night. To her everlasting pleasure, the society he’d once bowed to now shunned him. Her family’s good name and the ensuing accusations after Lottie’s death had done him in.

Grace Bentley tugged at her elbow, and Eliza looked down at the sprite, very aware of the noise around her. She liked Grace, a vivacious young woman with blonde frizzled hair and a slight overbite but she had a smile that was sunshine bright and drew people to her. Eliza liked her tremendously.

“Lady Eliza, I wish to introduce my brother, Lord Bentley, and his friend, Duke Weston.”

Distracted, she smiled at the younger woman before lifting her gaze to the gentlemen. Instantly, her caught in her throat as she got her first up close look at the dark man she’d noticed  earlier Tonight. Her heartbeat sped. It was odd in the extreme to have such a physical reaction to a man. Men made her wary and left her feeling overwhelmed, overpowered. Eliza didn’t like feeling afraid so avoiding gentlemen was something she managed at every turn. Aside from her dear father, men were creatures of base instinct and violence.

At least this had been her experience.

Best to retreat from them, especially dangerous ones, like the man standing before her like a satyr bent on plundering virgins. She’d noted his blatant stare earlier and without a degree of sensibility, she’d stared right back, feeling the heat of his gaze like red-hot fingers trailing her spine.

Despite her innate fear, she was captived. A strange emotional conflict, to be sure.

He was an utterly beautiful man. Wild and urbane all at once, he was the epitome of every swashbuckling tale she’d ever read as a girl. Sharp cheekbones were prominent beneath eyes that were pale and the color of smoke. Slashing black brows gave his dark coloring a decidedly demonic bent. But it was his mouth that was her undoing. Bold, sensual, and generous, it looked... dare she think it? Kissable!

Lips like his might cause even the most virtuous of ladies to slip from her chemise without a qualm. Eliza shivered and prayed no one noticed.

For the first time in her life, she wondered about forbidden things that she thought of only in the dark of night while tucked safely into her bed. Everything about the Duke screamed of virile excess.

She was untouched, yet the very sight of him sent her senses into a tizzy and made her question once again what it was about men that made women lose the sense God gave them.

Collecting herself with an effort, she turned to Grace’s brother and forced a tight smile. “Lord Bentley.” She nodded politely before returning her gaze to the demon-god. “Pleased, Your Grace.”

“Are you?” His voice was dark like sin, rich like honey, and laced with humor.

“I believe so.” Her face burned at his forthright manner and her own bluntness. Somehow it embarrassed her. “I mean, yes. I’m not normally so inept.”

“You are perfect.” He took her lace-gloved hand and kissed it, his hot breath invading the delicate fabric. Helplessly, she shivered, and the beast speared her with a knowing glance. Audaciously, his thumb caressed the palm of her hand and she gave a startled jerk.

“Not so perfect,” she answered tartly.

Since when had she become a shameless flirt?

His answering grin was charmingly white and merriment lit his eyes. He was irresistible, and it frightened her to the core.

“An imp then?”

Eliza’s smile cooled as she struggled against his charm. “Never.”

Duke Weston’s regard unnerved her and she fought the urge to squirm. Suddenly, he smiled as if sensing her unease. “Might I have the next dance?”

Uncomfortably, Eliza glanced at her dance card, then at the others in her party. It seemed a thousand eyes watched them and feeling ridiculous, she nodded. There was no way to avoid him without arousing further talk. “I-I... yes.”

His hand, bronzed and ungloved, looked awkward against the pale skin of her elbow, and she caught her breath at just how quickly he maneuvered her onto the crowded floor. A reel had just begun, but he paused near the musicians where he made a whispered request. As testament to his power among the Ton, a slow waltz thrummed sensuously through the stagnant air of the crowded room. Delighted dancers were soon swept up in the haunting music.

Feeling quite unlike herself, she fell into the Duke’s masterful arms. One large hand enveloped her own, while the other settled with slow assuredness onto her lower back. The warmth of his touch seeped through the fabric of her gown as his scent enveloped her with sandalwood and exotic spices. Everything about him was raw and masculine, making her feel giddy. She’d never been held closely by a man such as him. Against her better judgment, she breathed deeply and let herself sink into the sensual aura surrounding him. It was a mistake, she knew, but she simply could not help herself.

This man, though unlike any other of her acquaintance, was still just a man, she told herself. Charlotte had succumbed to just such a thrill and now she was dead for it.

Eliza steeled herself. Unwillingly, she lifted her head, gathered her pride, and stared him straight in the eye. Before those molten silver eyes consumed her, she caught her breath, reminding herself he was merely mortal, not some girlish fantasy.

His lashes were thick and black, she noted with a small shudder.

When at last he smiled at her, she felt struck as though rocked by a quake. Her gloved hand trembled as it rested on a broad, hard shoulder.

She felt tiny in his arms, though by any description, she was tall for a woman. Men of his size were intimidating, she thought, stifling the tremor that shook her to the core. He was dangerous, too sensual and too exotic in appearance for safety. Any woman would be a fool to fall under his spell, and Eliza was no fool.

Somehow her feet managed to move and she gave him a cool smile.

“Do you like the waltz?” he asked with a husky drawl.

“I suppose,” she demurred. “I seldom dance it, though it’s beautiful when well done.”

“You do it very nicely.”

“An attempt at flattery, Your Grace?”

He grinned. “Is it working?”

“I seldom succumb to flattery.”

“Mmm. Perhaps then, I should tell you that your eyes are like violets?”

Unable to resist, she smiled at his brash teasing. “African?” It had been quite a long time since she’d enjoyed a man’s company and it was a difficult thing to admit.

Duke Weston laughed, showing startlingly white teeth. “What else? Not very original, am I? Surely a woman as breathtaking as you has heard everything from Byronic prose to stricken male stammering. I apologize,” he said softly. He gave her waist a small squeeze that sent shivers over her flesh. “You deserve more than the mundane when a man sets out to gain your notice.”

The words sounded a warning through her brain and suddenly the dance seemed no longer pleasant beyond measure. She was not a woman to be won, wooed, or handled and it was time the brash young duke learned the truth.

Nicholas felt her stiffen in his arms and realized he’d spoken of his intent too soon. Her withdrawal, both physical and emotional, was a tangible thing. Hoping to regain a place in her good graces, he went quiet and concentrated instead on the movements of the dance. She was a dream of a woman, he thought, buoyed by light touches of slender thighs and the inadvertent pressure of her breasts against his chest. A man of intense concentration, he drank in the scent of gardenia she wore, the feel of her body as he swirled her around the dance floor, grace personified. Others watched their flight across the marquetry floor but his attention remained fixed upon the woman in his arms.

Her skin was softer than a dream, her scent mesmerizing. In short, the woman made his mouth water, but he knew a wary female when he saw one. She was afraid of something. Surely, he was not so fearsome?

As the last strains of the waltz brought their dance to an end, he pulled her as close as he dared and bent his head toward her ear. “May I call on you, my lady.”

A startled expression crossed her face and once again she stiffened against him. A tremor shook her making him more curious by the moment. For such a composed and cool young woman, she seemed stunned by his request.

“N-no.” She shook her head. Lady Eliza cleared her throat and looked at him. “I should say, Your Grace, that I do not accept male callers unless they are close family friends. If you are searching for a wife, you would do best to look elsewhere. I shall never marry.”